Taking a Tumble
by Besina
Summary: Sherlock lapses at the worst time; John is injured.


Sherlock had been bored, yes extremely bored. No cases in weeks, and even his experiments had stopped holding his attention. Yesterday's tantrum had included enough thrown objects that John found himself diving in to rescue the violin from Sherlock's grasp before the detective smashed it in an unknowing fit.

John had tried to engage his attention any way he knew how. He got papers from all over the UK to look for various hints of foul play - not just those in London - asked Sherlock for answers to the most bizarre questions and scenarios he could muster, desperately called Lestrade for cold cases only to be informed Sherlock had already gone through all the ones he'd considered interesting. John then pled the DI to ask around to other districts only to be informed of the same.

He'd bought up books on new scientific breakthroughs, all of which went ignored. He brought him to the bar to analyze people, an exercise Sherlock felt incredibly mundane, and was in a worse mood for in the end. He even asked Sherlock to show him all the places and explain all the cases he'd had before he met John. This engaged Sherlock somewhat, but he grew bored again after running through only five of them. He led John home in a huff of exasperation, flopped on the couch and simultaneously tried to pull his own hair out. John thought momentarily about having him committed, but thought better of it, as once Sherlock was put away somewhere, he despaired of them ever deeming him sane enough to let out.

All of John's muscles were stiff, tense, horribly overwrought with the competing desires to take care of his friend and throttle him to death. He left Sherlock on the sofa, hoping he wouldn't break anything else that night, while he sought refuge in a warm bath, attempting to calm down and de-stress from the week of hell. He thought of calling Mycroft, but felt that if he did, he'd likely break down in tears. Still, it was on the table.

How long he spent in the bath is largely anyone's guess, but the deep clawfooted tub, which allowed him to stretch out in full that was filled to the brim with gloriously warm-almost-hot water when he had climbed in, had cooled to tepid before he deemed it necessary to drain the bath and get out. He might have even dozed once or twice, head reclining over the back of the tub, but he did feel much better. Sooo much better. He stepped out of the tub and dried off, re-dressed, and though not looking forward to it, mustered up the fortitude to go check on Sherlock.

Sherlock was largely where John had left him, except lying on his back this time, stretched out along the couch, and no longer attempting to exfoliate his own scalp. He looked limp, relaxed. Perhaps all he'd needed was a rest.

Then John's eyes flitted to it, tucked under the couch, mostly out of sight. That damn box he hadn't seen in years - the one he and Mycroft had both despaired of ever seeing again - the one he'd thought for certain Sherlock had gotten rid of. His stomach roiled at the sight of it and the bottom dropped out of his world. He hadn't been able to keep Sherlock from returning to this. Despite his best efforts.

Sherlock was relaxed, not speeding around the room making bullet-fast deductions or proclaiming things brilliant, so morphine it was. His eyes were at half-mast, drowsy but not asleep, and he hadn't yet cottoned on to the fact John had spied the box which he had thought was cleverly out of sight.

Keeping his tone as level as possible and attempting to keep from crying or shaking, John picked up his jacket, announced he was going to the pub, and pulled the door closed behind him. He stood for a few seconds on the stairs. He knew he'd have to call Mycroft. And though part of him knew it was sheer and utter crap to hold himself responsible for Sherlock all of the time, he felt he'd failed and been totally inept in preventing a relapse. For a brief moment, he envisioned himself taking a swan-dive into the Thames - not that he would, but the image sometimes placed itself there during times of extreme stress. However, something in that imagery must have stuck in his hindbrain because the next step he took found him, rather startledly, flinging himself down the stairs.

Seventeen stairs seemed to take a lifetime to fall down. As he pitched, hit, and rolled off things, John found it odd: usually falling resulted in fast-flailing motions (he was flailing, but it didn't seem fast) and almost none of the event could be viewed with any coherence as it happened or usually afterward, but even as his head collided with the wall and the steps and he felt injury upon injury mounting, the percieved slowness of the fall did nothing to help him speed up his reflexes and save himself from any of it.

He came to the end of it with a sickening thud on the floor of the entryway, one leg still slung up on the last step, partway on his side, one arm pinned uncomfortably under him and another flung out toward the wall. He could feel blood running from his nose and a few lacerations on his face. His focus was blurry and kept fading in and out. His entire body hurt, muscles and tendons protested, as did his skull. He felt faintly ill, but satisfied himself with just closing his eyes for a moment.

All of this had taken less than a minute to occur. He could barely hear Mrs Hudson's door being yanked open, her gasp and a call for Sherlock, unneeded as Sherlock had risen at the very first of the commotion and yanked his own door open. They had both descended upon him in moments, Mrs Hudson fluttering about and talking about phoning the ambulance, while Sherlock's brain tried to stir into some semblance of working order. His thinking was mushy and slow and he cursed it while he tried to assess John's injuries enough to determine if he was seriously injured.

There'd been a blow to the head, certainly, probably a concussion, any half-wit could work that out, as John couldn't seem to keep his eyes open. He gave the job of keeping John awake to Mrs Hudson as a way to calm her down and so that he could try to focus on John. He wiped away the blood on John's face with his sleeve, seeing which areas continued to bleed, and how profusely, then he carefully pried the arm pinned underneath his friend out and examined it for breaks, sprains and tears; repeating the process with the rest of his limbs. His thinking lapsed for a minute as he drifted again on the morphine, snapping back to himself only when Mrs Hudson began worrying aloud once more.

Truth be told, he barely registered what she'd said, still drifting slightly, only vaguely shook his head and very determinedly picked John up from the floor, the remnants of his mobile lying smashed beneath him, before starting to make his way back upstairs with John. All his muscles felt weak, but he had to get John up there, for some reason he couldn't quite remember deciding upon - he had to take care of him.

He bumped the door open with his foot and stumbled with his burden over to the couch to lay John down on it. Mrs Hudson had followed them up.

"Sherlock, are you okay? You look ill."

"I'm perfectly FINE, Mrs Hudson," he snapped, "please look after John while I phone...someone," he answered absently, while he walked with a studied balance into his bedroom to retrieve his...? Phone. Yes, phone.

"Lestrade? Yes, Sherlock," Sherlock tried not to slur rather impressively. "John, um. Fall. He fell, that is. Stairs. Mrs Hudson is a mess. Will you come?" Sherlock hung up before any more questions could be raised, half-certain that Lestrade already knew Sherlock was stoned - there had been something in the DI's tone. He then dialed Sarah's number and asked her to pop 'round and have a look, even though she hadn't seen John in over a year, she quickly agreed having heard what happened. Though he answered her question about the hospital with a curt "People DIE in hospitals," before abruptly ringing off.

If he'd wanted John to die, he would have called Molly... no, that wasn't quite fair. But he was angry and he wanted to vent it on someone. He was mostly angry with himself, as he wasn't in any fit state to deal with his blogger who absolutely needed him to be at his best right now. His mind wandered off on its own again and he angrily pulled it back when Mrs Hudson called from the sitting room. "Sherlock! I can't keep him from nodding off!" There was desperation in her voice.

Sherlock quickly shuffled back to John's side, crouching on the floor next to him, and told her to fetch some cold water - at least give her something to do until people who could *think* could arrive. _That should be him, dammit! _ Why of all nights did he have to go back to old habits tonight? He felt woozy and faintly sick, some from the morphine and all the running around, but mostly because he couldn't be there for John. There were probably a million different things he should be doing for him right now, but all he could think of was sending Mrs Hudson for water, off all the idiotic things; his brain a slow treacle of sludge to be navigated rather than the sleek machine it usually was.

He'd called someone. At least he'd called someone. They'd take one look at him and know what an utterly useless wreck he was, but that was okay, they would take care of John. He'd listen to their lectures and attend their disapproving stares later. Nothing could make him feel worse than he did right now. Mrs Hudson returned with a basin of cold water and a flannel, which she dabbed on John's face and then put right behind his neck. His eyes fluttered open for a moment, he rolled to the side and vomited all over Sherlock, which oddly made Sherlock feel a tiny bit better. He probably deserved it, after all.

Lestrade arrived first and entered the room to see Sherlock, leaning over John, his head resting on John's stomach, and covered in sick.

"He's tired out, poor thing," fussed Mrs Hudson, showing the detective in.

"Oh, I'm sure he is," replied Lestrade sourly, then addressing Sherlock, snapped, "Holmes! Get up and get cleaned up and changed god-dammit! Turn the water to the coldest you've got, might snap some sense into you!"

Mrs Hudson looked horrified at the tone he'd taken with Sherlock, but Sherlock nevertheless looked up blearily, then rose to his feet to go do as he was told.

"Who was ill?" Lestrade asked Mrs Hudson.

"Oh. That was John, poor dear, only woke for a moment, and managed to get poor Sherlock. He just sat there though, worried about his friend. Is it terribly bad, Inspector?"

"Well that's good anyway," mumbled Lestrade, mostly to himself, then corrected, as he was in her hearing "well, not good for John, obviously. How long has he been unresponsive?"

He moved to John's head and pried his eyes open, watching the dialation of his pupils - those were normal at least. "Is there an ambulance, a doctor, something on its way or do I need to call for one?" Just on cue, Sarah stepped through the door, carrying her kit with her. Lestrade backed up to make room, and between he and Mrs Hudson, filled her in on the fall, the inability to wake him, and his getting sick before passing out again. Sarah gave him the once over, checking his eyes, as Lestrade had done just moments ago, then checking for breaks, finding quite a lot of swelling and contusions, but nothing that could definitely be called a break without an x-ray.

"Well," she summed up, "I'm not sure why Sherlock didn't get him to the hospital right away, aside from sounding a little superstitious about them, but given that we can't keep him conscious, I'd recommend an ambulance and a stay at the hospital for observation, there's likely some cerebral swelling."

Lestrade asked her to make the call while he went to check on Sherlock. He found him, showered, and mostly dressed, lying passed out crosswise on his bed. Taking a deep breath, he strode over to him, took his pulse, nodded to himself and straightened Sherlock out on the bed, on his side, propping pillows beneath him to keep him there. Then he dailed Mycroft as the sound of an ambulance approached.

Mycroft answered, sounding surprisingly chipper for a man with a country to run, and Lestrade felt bad to have to break the news to him on what must have been a relatively good day. "Mycroft, yeah, it's Lestrade. Listen, I'm on my way into the A&E with John. No, he's had a fall. Listen, your brother... he's going to need someone to look after him. No, not injured... just back to square one, you could say." Mycroft let out a long, sad sigh of resignation. Lestrade continued, feeling awful for the older Holmes brother, "He's in bed, pulse is steady, yes, probably the morphine. He never did any but those two, right? I can leave him for a bit, he's probably going to be fine, but you might want to send someone... yes, good. I'll leave the flat unlocked."

The medics were trundling John out the door on a stretcher when Lestrade returned and joined them for the trip to the hospital, riding in the back with John, and promising to keep Mrs Hudson updated via phone. She had already gotten out cleaning supplies to clean up the smears and small pools of blood John had left during his unfortunate trip and landing. Lestrade assured her that someone would be coming to take care of Sherlock, but didn't explain further than that, letting her assume sickness and emotional exhaustion.

Several days passed, with John in the hospital. They'd managed to get the swelling down fairly quickly and he was in and out of consciousness often, but it was better than no response at all. Apart from calling Mrs Hudson "Mum", occasional lapses in memory, and sometimes falling asleep mid-sentence, he was fairing pretty well. Sherlock sat by his side nearly all day, trying to keep him company and soothed during the times he suddenly forgot where he was.

Neither Mycroft nor Lestrade had given him the talking-to they both had planned on, as Mycroft had not yet had the chance and Lestrade had seemingly backed off. When he got the chance, Lestrade pulled Myrcoft to the side, pressing something into his hand. "He gave this to me as soon as he was back to himself," he murmured, placing the long, polished box into Mycroft's hands. "Said he never wanted to be so useless again. Especially to John."

There was a long pause as Mycroft slid his hands over the case, then flicked it open to examine its contents: the syringe, spoon, and empty vials, before closing it once again. He looked back at Lestrade "This doesn't guarantee he won't be tempted again, but it is a very good sign. It takes him out of his comfort zone, should he want to indulge again, and it will remind him of his failings, not to mention he'd have to procure everything rather than having it at-hand. Time in which to re-think."

Lestrade ran a hand through his thick silvery hair. "Seeing him like that again, I wanted to throttle him."

Mycroft patted him comprehendingly on the back, "I thoroughly understand your sentiment. But I think, at least I hope, this brought him to his senses. He's never seen his actions have a direct effect on someone else's welfare before. Perhaps this changes things."

"I hope so," admitted Lestrade.

The two stood in companionably awkward silence for a few moments before heading back to John's room, Mycroft, not at all sentimental about Sherlock's shortcomings, dropped the case and its contents into the nearest bio-hazard bin to be destroyed.

John was released two days later as he was able to stay alert and his memory lapses became fewer and further in between. Sherlock was still shaken and uncertain of himself, asking Molly to stop by as often as she could to ensure John was doing well. Despite her working in a morgue, she did have training, and compassion. Just what John needed.

One day, waking up and still a bit blurry, John asked Sherlock exactly what had happened, to which he determinedly replied, "I failed you. I won't do it again."

Then the lank detective strode off to make his blogger some breakfast, leaving John a bit confused, yet somehow relieved.


End file.
